Body, Mind, and Heart
by BexIsAZombie
Summary: During his time away, Sherlock has to put up with his mind's constant arguing and his body's protests. But his heart overpowers them both - it knows what is important and what he must do.


_Body, Mind, & Heart  
_

Staring into the mirror barely hanging in the bathroom of his dingy motel room, Sherlock examined his current state: a deep purple welt covered his upper left ribs, scabbed over cuts itched something terrible, dark circles had set in under his eyes, weight loss from poor diet becoming obvious. Looking himself over for a second more, he tugged at the curls still sitting atop his head before he reached for the electric razor.

Taking a deep breath before switching it on, he paused with the razor buzzing before his forehead. It was with great trepidation that he allowed the blades to finally run through his hair.

_You could go back. And what would he say if you did this, the 'cut off all your hair' bit? _

_I can't return. Not yet. And no hair makes for more versatility in disguises._

Thick locks fell to the ground until nothing remained but a bluish white scalp that had been forever protected from sunlight. His palm ran across the now smooth dome. Examining his transformation from all angles in the cracked mirror, Sherlock scowled.

_Hideous._

Turning to exit the bathroom, he corrected himself. _Necessary. _

_-x-_

He cringed as he dug around in his latest procurement of cuts with a pair of tweezers. Biting back a yelp of pain, Sherlock pulled out yet another shard of glass. He had enough medical knowledge to handle himself after an altercation – such as being thrown through a set of French doors – but he couldn't help but miss a more experienced touch.

"_Damn it Sherlock. One of these days you're going to pick a fight with the wrong person and I won't be able to fix you up," John mumbled angrily as he observed the aftermath of his friend's most recent encounter. Sherlock simply sat on a kitchen stool and waited for John to return with medical supplies, as had become customary._

"_At least get yourself into trouble when I'm not at work. I _am_ trained for combat situations, you know."_

"_Aware," said Sherlock through gritted teeth. The sting of antiseptic hitting open wounds certainly didn't ease with repetition. He tuned out most of John's chastising, instead focusing on the nonverbal cues: the way his gentle hand contrasted his words, the worry evident in his blue eyes, how obvious it was that he was gnawing the inside of his bottom lip. In the beginning it amused him that John cared so much – only _ordinary_ people cared. But slowly he had realized that John _wasn't_ ordinary and having John care meant the world._

_After fifteen more minutes of John cleaning, bandaging, and in today's case, stitching, the remainder of Sherlock's wounds while scolding him, the doctor threw away the last bloodied wad of tissue and looked at his chronic patient._

"_Thank you," Sherlock said as he got up._

"_Sherlock."_

_He paused at the doorway and turned back to John._

"_I mean it. _Please_ be careful. I'd much rather deal with things like this than having to identify your body."_

_Sherlock nodded. "Of course." _

_He looked John over once more. Today's damage had his flatmate more upset than usual. Normally John would've moved to put tea on by now. Instead he was still staring Sherlock down, brow still creased, eyes still cloudy, and still gnawing at his lip._

_His gaze suddenly scanning the kitchen to avoid John, Sherlock murmured, "I'm… sorry that I've upset you," before quickly moving to his bedroom, mumbling about research and experiments._

Sherlock wrapped the final gauze bandage around his arm and fell back onto his current bed. The places he had been occupying the past months smelled of rot and squalor, only maintained enough to barley pass inspections – if that. Thankfully the man he was currently tracking kept to nicer areas than his previous targets. This meant Sherlock was able to stay in hotels where the beds didn't reek too terribly of bodily fluids.

_This is what you're coming to. Being happy with a questionably clean bed._

_Sheets that are questionably clean are better than those that are certainly dirty. It can't be much longer now._

_And what if it is?_

_He… It's worth it._

Popping a few painkillers, Sherlock rolled over and tried to quiet the arguing voices in his brain so he could attempt to rest and recuperate.

_-x-_

"I suppose it's good to see you with only… _minor_ injuries," Mycroft quipped from his chair.

Sherlock sat in Mycroft's flat on his grotesquely comfortable sofa, arm in a sling. He had almost forgotten what upper class was. Two seconds in his elder brother's presence, let alone his lavish flat, quickly remedied that. The Holmes brothers sat in silence, an occurrence more common than not. Sherlock stared into his tea, refusing to drink something he knew would be terrible because it wasn't how John made it. It didn't hurt that it would annoy the hell out of his older brother.

"He's doing alright, Sherlock. He hasn't left 221B; I suppose that could be taken as a good sign," Mycroft mused after a sip of tea. Sherlock didn't look up. After another terse silence, Mycroft spoke again. He sounded concerned, both for his brother and John Watson. "How much longer are you going to be, Sherlock? You look like you've seen death multiple times." He paused. "There are things even I cannot fix, Sherlock, death being one of them."

Sherlock looked to see the stern government man fade into his worried big brother. Sighing, he took a polite sip from his tea, choking it down with a poorly hidden grimace. "I don't know how much longer I'll be. I just have to make sure they're safe. Thank you," Sherlock hated the phrase when directed at his brother, "for keeping an eye on them, Mycroft. And thank you for calling in the private doctor; I've been trying to avoid hospitals."

"Thanked twice? You are clearly out of sorts," Mycroft said, grinning while Sherlock scowled, "I'm simply looking out for you. That is what an elder brother is supposed to do, correct?"

"Especially if he's the British Government."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and took another sip. "_Minor_ position."

_-x-_

His body slammed backwards at full force into the concrete wall. His head snapped back first and a crack of collision was heard. Fingers laced around his already bruised throat and squeezed.

_Not yet! Not here! No!_

Using all the energy he had left, most of it provided by the sudden rush of adrenaline, Sherlock brought a knee into his assailant's gut and jabbed his index and middle fingers into the small space between the man's Adam's apple and collarbone. While his opponent was left struggling for breath, Sherlock delivered a quick blow to his head to knock him out.

Sherlock braced himself against the cold wall before sliding down to sit on the grimy alley floor. He could feel the blood dripping warm down his neck. He'd have to go to hospital this time; there was no way around it. Gazing at his incapacitated attacker, he sighed and rubbed his throat.

_You can't keep doing this. You need to stop soon._

_Not until I'm sure they're safe. That's he's safe._

_-x-_

It was done. He was finished. Mrs. Hudson was safe. Lestrade was safe. _John_ was safe.

As he rode back to 221B, Sherlock catalogued his current injuries.

_Cut lip. Bruised eye. Bruised ribs. Healing abdomen wound. Possibly broken nose – should probably have that checked out. Innumerable scrapes, cuts, and scars._

_You look a mess. He's not going to let you in looking like that._

_Do you know John? Surely the doctor in him will feel the need to help me._

_After you abandoned him for close to two years?_

_You don't know John._

_I know he must be upset._

Sherlock gazed out the cab window, route back to Baker Street comfortably familiar. The flat came into view and he wondered if the cab was somehow losing air, breathing suddenly becoming difficult. The cab stopped and Sherlock wondered if he'd even be able to walk himself to the front door of 221B Baker Street. Before he realized what was happening, the car door was open, he was crossing the street, and his scraped knuckles rapped on painted wood.

"No, no, that's fine Mrs. Hudson, I've got it!"

Sherlock's already erratic breathing hitched at the voice.

_John._

_What if he slams the door in your face?_

_No. Stop. That's not how John acts._

_Do you know how long it's been?_

_One year, nine months, two weeks, three days._

_That's a long—_

"Sherlock?"

He wasn't sure what to say. I'm sorry? Hello? I've missed you? I pretended to be dead to keep you safe, please forgive me and let me back in?

Sherlock didn't have time to say anything. His smorgasbord of wounds, poor breathing, and erratic heartbeat combined to make the world spin and grow fuzzy. He plummeted forward.

_-x-_

John opened the door to a bedraggled Sherlock who looked like he had traveled to hell and back more than once.

"Sherlock?" He couldn't believe it. No. This wasn't Sherlock; this was some cruel joke. A figment of his imagination. When the surely not real Sherlock fainted, John lunged forward to catch him and realized that this person was tangible and seemed to be Sherlock, albeit a much lighter and more bruised Sherlock. Deciding against the stairs up to 221B, John carried the limp body into Mrs. Hudson's flat, earning a sharp gasp from her when he dropped Sherlock on the couch.

From what he could see, Sherlock was in terrible shape. He hadn't eaten, probably hadn't slept, his hair was considerably shorter – though that was cosmetic, not a wound, nothing to worry about – his nose looked offset, eye darkened, lip busted, covered in too many battle wounds to count, some healed, some not. John immediately switched into doctor mode. Sherlock may have left him, but now he was back and he was injured. John just fell back into routine.

Leaving his unconscious friend only long enough to get the usual lineup of medical supplies, John pulled up a chair and set to work on fixing him up. Just like always.

_-x-_

Sherlock awoke to the sting of antiseptics on a particularly poor treated cut on his side. Once the world focused again, John was the focal point of his vision, sitting next to him and repairing the damage he'd done to himself. Noticing his patient was awake, John quickly finished applying the bandage and smiled softly.

_You have to be asleep in some decrepit motel. This isn't real. John is not smiling at you._

John laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock?"

"John?" He blinked a couple times to clear his vision, make sure the person in front of him was real. "I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"No," John laughed and shook his head, "thought I was too at first."

"Why haven't you thrown me out, hit me at least?" he asked. He had expected John to be righteously pissed with him. This was… unexpected to say the least.

"You're hurt enough as it is. I'm upset, but you fainted in the doorway and you've taken horrible care of yourself. I'll be angry at you when you're back in fighting condition."

Sherlock sat up, failing to hide his pain which furthered John's worry, and stared at John, taking in every new wrinkle, every new grey hair, _everything_. John studied Sherlock with equal intensity. Each cut, scar, scabbed over monstrosity, all laid bare with the absence of a shirt, the uncharacteristically dirty article of clothing was set aside to allow proper examination of Sherlock's extensive list of wounds. Without a word, they fell into each other, arms wrapping around the other man tightly, faces burying into shoulders, a one year, nine month, two week, and three day breath finally released.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured, fingers digging into familiar wool, clinging to the person he had missed most. The fabric scratched his skin, but he didn't mind. He was home. Back with John and his adorably atrocious jumpers, back in 221B with him and Mrs. Hudson.

John nodded against his shoulder. "I know."

Sherlock felt John shudder against him. John's grip became even tighter, pulling Sherlock as close as possible, afraid to let him go again in case he should vanish in to thin air. When he spoke again, his voice was on the brink of cracking. Sherlock swore he felt the faintest of droplets against his marred skin. He wondered if John noticed the similar damp spot on his jumper.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John sighed. "Thank you for not being dead."

The past year and a half had been a constant battle between his body and his mind. Finally, _finally_, they both fell silent and let his heart take over as it was reunited with its better half. Not too long ago he would've said such sentiment was nonsense, ordinary, and boring. Now? Now he would still swear up and down that he was above emotions, only admitting the truth to those who mattered. He did feel. He felt for Gregory Lestrade, for Mrs. Hudson, even for his annoying prat of a brother. But most of all he felt for John Watson. Dare he say it, but Sherlock was pretty sure that the particular emotion was classified as love.

_Yes. _

His heart assured his brain: he loved John and John loved him. And right now, that was all that mattered.

_-x-_

Mrs. Hudson stood at the edge of the living room watching the scene play out, a pack of biscuits and two consolatory cups of tea at the ready. She couldn't help the small smile playing across her lips and the tears shimmering in her eyes. Sherlock was back, he and John were reunited – two halves rejoined. Everything was right once again.

* * *

**Hope you all enjoyed! Much love for everyone's support and Chapter 3 of my fic 'Something Greater' should be coming soon. Sorry for the wait, I feel so bad. You guys are awesome!**


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